


The Language That His Family Speaks

by DjDangerLove



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Illiterate Joshua Faraday, deep friendship if you don't, hints of Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8232887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DjDangerLove/pseuds/DjDangerLove
Summary: They stopped in for a few days rest, but ended up arguing and tearing down a saloon. ...Or how a dysfunctional group of misfits make the family dynamic work.





	

Faraday fans the edges of a stack of playing cards, each one slapping against the next in a low thrum that toys with the surrounding silence. Seated across from him, Vasquez takes a long drag from the cigar hanging loosely from busted lips and gives an irritated sigh that pulls at dried blood in the cracks. “Must you do that?” he asks, accent thicker than usual around the split lip. “Usted podría hacer un hombre muerto loco.”

The gambler drops his leg from where he had it propped up on the table, forcing his chair to rock forward and stand on all four supports. His wet clothes give a little squelch with the movement. “Sorry, it’s not really an insult when you’re the only one who knows what you’re sayin’.”

Vasquez gives a grin that’d make any man’s trigger finger twitch. “Si, just like every thought you ever had, guero.” That earns him a squawked laugh from the younger man that’s equal parts amused and annoyed. Faraday makes to respond, but Chisolm’s deep voice from the far end of the table rattles the air around them. 

“Enough,” he says, tone low and even the way he does when he’s about to give encouragement or kill a man. “If you two want to continue to bicker like school children, that can be arranged. Y’all just march yourselves right down the street to the school in the mornin’ and take it up there.”

“At least, you might get an educación,” Vasquez mocks, while pointing at the small destroyed book on the table in front of Faraday. “Learn big man words, no?”

“Hey,” Sam points a long, dark finger at him. “You’ve already been told once. Follow the man’s word, you hear?”

Faraday and Vasquez nod in agreement, but continue to stare each other down like a parched drunk to a bottle of water. Leaned back in the chair beside the outlaw, Red Harvest pushes air out of his smear-painted nose. Despite his lack of English, he’s come a long way in communicating the white man’s sneer.

“Don’t you be laughing,” Sam directs towards the Comanche without taking his eyes off his other two men. “You remember the Barefield incident, don't you?”

Red Harvest turns his glower from the wall to the two men beside him and spits out a native word that even Faraday knows he should be offended by. A boot tip finds a soft spot on the Comanche’s lower leg under the table, but instead of kicking back he raises his hands in the gesture of drawing back a bowstring and letting an arrow fly at the gambler across the dining surface. It shouldn’t be intimidating, but Faraday sits up a bit straighter with a thick swallow.  
Sam just hides a grin underneath the tilted brim of his hat. 

A soft sigh from the corner of the table ropes everyone’s attention, and Horne shakes his head at them while he continues to fold and unfold a worn handkerchief. “Simmer down, be civil with one another,” he pleads, voice higher than it should be for a man of his size. He nods towards the adjacent corner of the table. “Take Billy as an example, Lord knows you all need one.”

Said man, who had not spoken a word since sitting down, lazily rolls his eyes, one blackened and swelled nearly shut, up and around the table. His black hair falls around his features from the lack of a hairpin. “Do not bring me into this,” he says, while the bruises and cuts on his face stay perfectly in horrid shape.

“Bring you into it?” Faraday asks, swinging around bewilderedly to stare at the assassin. “If I’m not mistaken, you started this whole shit pile. Tell me, Billy. Where’s Goodnight?”

“Eh, easy for you to say, guero. Let off it,” Vasquez chides, twisting his face into an expression of a cease fire for the sake of Billy. Faraday ignores it.

“Are we really going to sit here and wait for him? Who knows when he’s coming back,” the gambler groans. “We haven’t eaten all day - and no, that raw, bloody thing you stuck on a stick does not count, Red. I mean….do we even know if he’s coming back? He has a habit of-“

Billy is standing before the chair legs even make their screech against the wood floors, hand at his lower back. Faraday stumbles up, his bum leg still achingly slower than the rest of him, but hand resting easy on his gun. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” Horne shouts in hysteric anger. “Sit down! We ain’t killin’ each other!”

Faraday and Billy continue to stare each other down with Vasquez, Red Harvest, and Sam watching the show between them in unsettled silence. 

“I said, sit down!” Horne shoves a fist down on the table that rattles clean, empty plates. 

Billy lets his hand fall back at his side and drops noiselessly back into his chair, eyes still on Faraday. The latter remains standing, but braces himself with both hands on the tabletop. “You know, I think I’ll just find somewhere else to eat.”

“Sit. Down. Now.” The eldest man says, his voice finally settling in a low tone that none of them have ever heard directed at them. Faraday rubbernecks at the older man, but the Irish blood in him wants to test his luck. He pushes away from the table and has to hang on to the his vacant chair for support after sitting for so long. He manages to make two steps before he’s stopped dead in his tracks by Horne calling his first name of, “Joshua.”

Faraday twists slowly back around, whether due to the pain in his leg or his own trepidation is unclear. He staggers a step, thinks he’s going to face plant into the dusty, shattered glass covered floors for a fraction of a second until Billy’s hand grabs a fistful of the back of his shirt to steady him. He jerks his head in one minuscule nod of appreciation, before the assassin gently shoves him back down onto his chair. 

Goodnight was right. What a merry band they are. 

=================================================================================================

9 HOURS EARLIER….

 

Jack is a good horse. He trots quick enough to keep pace with the others, but slow enough that he doesn’t slosh the whiskey from Faraday’s bottle when he pops the cork from the top. He also seems to think his rider is made of glass. Since they were able to leave Rose Creek a couple of months ago, injuries healed into scars and dull aches, Jack has dodged every hole in the plains and navigated the canyons with smooth inclines and delicate descents. 

At first, Faraday considered that it was just a horse’s inclination to treat a rider that sat stiff upon their saddled back with daintiness, or maybe just foolish luck. However, one night as he tried to ignore the throbbing pain down his side despite Vasquez’s attempts at shoving his own bedroll underneath his scarred torso so that the hard cut of the rocks didn’t make it worse, he heard the outlaw speaking to Jack. It was whispers at first, Spanish words Faraday couldn’t hope to repeat with any kind of accuracy. But then it turned to soft mutters of, “Take care of our guero. He not the cowboy he used to be,” as Vasquez stroked a calloused hand down the horse’s forehead. “Understand me, Si? Take care of him.”

But Jack also does stupid stuff like trot at snail’s pace in between Horne and his rambling nonsense and Red Harvest eating bloody rabbit meat off a stick. That’s where Faraday finds himself now, trying to decide if thinking about the pain in his leg is better than listening to whatever it is that Horne is on about when the group of seven come upon the edge of a new town, the first one they’ve came across in almost a week. Faraday is a little disappointed in himself when his first relieved thought is about an actual bed to sleep in, and not drowning himself in alcohol and gambling debt. If he also feels relieved that Goodnight and Billy might get some actual sleep without nightmares to creep up on them out in the open, then maybe Vasquez is right. He’s not the cowboy he used to be. 

They enter the town easily enough. They’re used to the stares by now. Word spread fast of their merry band of seven saving Rose Creek and a few other places from a few other people like Bogue. Faraday used to wink at every dazzling little lady lined up on the street while they strolled through, but recently he can only concentrate enough to stay steady on his own saddle. Forget saddling something else. Jack seems to understand, and brushes up against Vasquez’s horse like they have some kind of agreement worked out when Faraday has self-deprecating thoughts or is tilting sideways on the saddle. 

The sheriff of the town meets them out in front of the station. He’s a potbellied man, with a curled mustache that no doubt has food crumbs nestled in the ends. His skinny deputies lean against the posts of the porch, guns stuck out heavily from their side. 

“My, my! What kind of trouble has the Magnificent Seven brought to my little ol’ town?” 

“We don’t aim to bring any, sir. Just seekin’ a few days rest if you’ll allow it. We’ll be passin’ on through shortly,” Chisolm replies, scoping out the area for a good vantage point anyway, should they need it. 

“Sure, sure. Welcome to stay as long as you like if ya stay under the law here. Drink the whiskey if you pay for it, but I suppose you can room upstairs for free considerin’ your fellow law enforcement of sorts.” The sheriff nods along, motioning a young child that resembles him. “Henry will show you to your quarters there. Tie up your horses ‘round back.”

Chisholm nods and makes to turn his horse while his men do the same.  
“Oh, people ‘round here are simple folk,” the sheriff halts them. “We don’t aim to take nothin’ from nobody or let anyone take anything from us. Not even our beliefs. We’re civil folk, mind you, but a few of ya might not fit in out on your own, so take my advice and stay together.” It’s a warning, not a threat, but it does little to ease Sam’s nerves. 

 

Henry helped tie up their horses while excited questions spewed out from his mouth about cowboys and riding over the open plains. Horne is all too happy to indulge him in mesmerizing details that never happened and they can all see the way it satisfies him to keep this young child in awe of the world instead of fearful of it. The kid skims past the bar on quick feet, takes the stairs two at time even while Horne huffs and puffs after him, the rest of them following behind. 

There’s four vacant rooms on the second floor and before Henry can awkwardly explain to them they’ll have to share, Goodnight and Billy break off into one of them. Sam and Horne claim separate ones while passing a kind thank you to Henry, which leaves Red Harvest standing next to the door of the last room with his arms crossed over his chest. Ignoring the way Henry’s eyes travel over him in fearful wonderment, he raises a challenging eyebrow at Vasquez and Faraday. 

The latter stumbles into the outlaw beside him, favoring his leg a little more than usual and dramatic enough to give his plan away. Vasquez catches him regardless and drags him past Red Harvest into the room. “Come along, inválido,” he mutters, dropping the gambler down onto one of two beds. “Do not think you don’t have to share because you are injured. I’m not sleeping on the floor because you’re like an old man, now.”

“As long as you buy my dinner first, muchacho,” Faraday grins as he lays back and closes his eyes. “Or maybe just a drink. I could use one of those. Or two. Actually, if I gotta share a bed with the likes of you, make it a lot.” 

Vasquez raises an amused eyebrow, but Red Harvest drops his bow on the other bed claiming it as his own before walking out of the room. Vasquez waits a moment, then tosses a blanket over an already sleeping Faraday. 

==================================================================================================

He’s not sure how long he slept or when he found a blanket, but when he stands it’s with nothing more than a dull ache in his leg he can easily ignore and decides to take a walk around the town. Out in the hallway, the door to Goodnight and Billy’s room is closed and he hopes they’re getting some sleep, or whatever it is that they both seem to need. Passing through the bar downstairs, he nods to Sam sitting on a stool sipping at a brown drink in a small glass. Out on the porch, he has to shield his eyes from the bright shine of the sun until his vision returns to normal and he can see Horne reading the little pocket Bible he carries around. “We’re blessed with such a nice day, good time to read His word. I can read aloud if you want to join me,” the older man says, and even though Faraday has little interest in doing so he sort of wants to say yes, because Horne looks so hopeful that a part of Faraday that he seems to be discovering little by little these days can’t bear the look on his face when he says no. 

Instead, he gives a lopsided grin and pats the man’s shoulder as he limps past him. “Maybe later, alright? Need to walk off the bum leg for a bit.”

“Sure, sure,” Horne obliges quickly and goes back to reading so as to hide his disappointment. 

 

He ventures around the small town for a bit, checks on Jack, and then watches some of the townsfolk play some sort of game he can’t follow out in an open field. He enjoys the warmth of the sunshine on his back as he leans against a fencepost though and is happy to stand there and watch. He thinks he might ask one of them to explain the game to him, but suddenly there’s a small tug on the thigh of his pants causing him to look down. 

A young girl stands there, her chocolate hair running down the back of a pretty dress dirty with hard wear and kicked up dust. She grins at him from behind a small book that she holds against her chest and cowers behind it. 

“And who might you be?” he asks her, trying to hide the grimace bending down to her level causes him. 

She ducks lower behind the book, but whispers, “Mary.”

“Mary, that’s a beautiful name. I knew a Mary once. She…rode the trains and slept in a big house. That could be you one day.”

Mary escapes the shelter of her book to smile wide at him. “Really? You really think so?”

“I know so,” he nods, then taps at the book. “Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s a story my momma reads to me ‘bout the cowboys who saved our home when I was really little. My daddy was one of ‘em.”

“Is…is that so?”

“Mmhmm. I….,” Mary trails off, sticking the toe of her shoe in the dirt before mumbling, “I wanted to give it to you.”

“Me? Why you wanna go and do that?”

“Well…it says that all cowboys have this place where they meet ‘cause all their horses know where to take ‘em. Like a secret hideout or somethin’. I don’t think all horses know because I tried to get BoBo to take me there so I could see my Daddy. He just take me to the tree line and dumped me off. Got my Momma all mad at me. I even showed him the map in the book and he still don’t know how to get there.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Faraday prompts, fighting the urge to stand up and ignore the girl because he thinks he knows the answer. 

“Well seein’ as how you’re a cowboy like my Daddy was, I figure I could give you this book and and then you could read it, show your horse the map, because he looked really smart, and find my Daddy. Tell him how to come back here so I could see him.”

“Oh…” he swallows heavily, like he’s eating something Red Harvest prepared for dinner. “Well, sorry. I…I can’t do that…you see, um, cowboys…they don’t work for free. You gotta pay ‘em to do stuff like finding people and such.”

“I got money! See!” She holds out her hand with two small coins laying in the palm. “Please, mister! He’s my Daddy. Haven’t you ever-“

“Okay! Okay!” He yells back at her, causing a few heads to turn, but he’s just glad he cut off her clearly planned speech. “Just give me the book, and keep the change. I can’t…I can’t promise I’ll find him or he’ll come back, you understand?” 

“Yes, sir! Thank you!” She shouts shoving the book in his hands before hugging him tight around the neck. He stiffens a second before gently prying her off. As he watches her run off, he thinks about tossing the book, but flipping through the worn pages he finds a little hand written note in crooked letters. Something settles heavily on him, and he clutches the book a little tighter. 

 

He finds a nice grassy spot near the river east of the town out behind the sheriff’s station and sits down. Opening the book, he flips to the handwritten note and stares at it for a long time. He can only make out a few of the words, but it’s not because of the bad handwriting. That heavy feeling finds him again and weighs on him. It must settle on his senses too because he doesn’t even hear Vasquez approach until he plops down beside of him. 

He jerks in surprise, trying to hide both the book and wince at the same time. Vasquez sees both, but chooses to focus on the book instead. “Hmm, what is that? Book of pictures, I hope,” the outlaw teases, gently nudging an elbow between the two bullet scars on Faraday’s side. 

The weight on the gambler’s chest drags him down just a bit further, pulling at the corners of his mouth and the bend of his shoulders. Vasquez seems to feel it too and leans back to counter it, throwing his head to the side in regret. “Te provoco. I’m sorry. It’s nothing, guero.” 

 

“Yeah, I know. Just give it back,” Faraday counters, yanking the book from the older man’s hands. 

Vasquez seems a little taken back that it rubs him the wrong way, but finally understands that it must actually bother Faraday when any one of them hounds him about it. “Look, I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you, mi amigo. If it bothers you so much….why not…why not learn?”

Faraday glares at him as he stands up, “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Claramente,” Vasquez mumbles, but stands to the younger man’s height while catching his retreating arm. “I could…I could teach you.”

“You…,” Faraday gives a little laugh of disbelief causing the outlaw to frown. “You? Teach me? My God, call in the American calvary! A Mexican teaching me to read English? You are…how is it you say it?” Snapping his fingers he shouts, “Loco, mi amigo!” 

“Suit yourself, cabrón,” Vasquez spits. “I learn English so that I could survive in this country. I offer to teach you for…peace of heart. You have it easy, Faraday, yet you still don’t reach out to take what’s in front of you that’s not a drink or a peso.” He turns to leave at that, but stops short when Faraday calls out, “It’s peace of mind, not heart, you Mexican piñata!” 

The outlaw pivots around slowly and taps the younger man on the chest, “No, hermano, I meant peace of heart. Americans can convince their minds of anything, but your heart knows better, if only you listen to it.”

 

Faraday decides to listen to his heart alright and heads for the saloon to saturate it in whiskey. The trek back seems like he’s walking the distance of a two day trip on horseback and his leg throbs a protest at him that curls up his side. Finally, he stumbles up the steps looking like he’s been on a three day bender and headed in to make it four. He catches Horne out of the corner of his eye wobble a bit on the bench he’s still occupying, words spilling out of the man’s mouth about, “taking care yourself,” and something “the Lord would allow”. The man means to stand and help him, but Faraday waves him off like a fly. 

He finds himself drooping on a barstool, the time between the door and and the bar a blank spot in his memory. When the bartender asks what he’ll have, he starts to cower at the thought of getting sloshed and wonders if this kind of thing is what Vasquez tells his horse, Jack, late at night. He gives a little laugh, huffed out into the wood surface of the bar that he hadn’t realized he laid his head down on. He’s thought of a good joke to tell the bartender, a real ass-kicker about a donkey, but before he can raise his head to tell it is when everything goes to absolute shit. 

When glass starts breaking, he just reminds himself to save the joke for Jack. 

================================================================================================

It’s an odd thing, seeing a man fly through a window. Even stranger to realize said man is a petite son of bitch that you know. There’s shattered glass at his feet, and Billy, too, by the time he swivels around. The assassin though seems more concerned with the small bag he’s shoving into Faraday’s hand with wide eyes and a whispered, “It’s for Goody. No one see,” while pulling himself up off the floor and unsheathing his knives than he is with the fact he was just thrown through a saloon window. 

Faraday uses a sleight of hand trick to pocket the tiny parcel he had been given and as he stands to ready himself for an oncoming fight he notices Billy’s hair out of its usual bun. “Now’s a hell of a time to lose your hairpin, Billy.”

 

Faraday realizes somewhere between his head being knocked into the bar top and kicking a man’s leg in that Billy shoved a knife down into a doctor’s desk when he was refused some sleeping herbs. And damn it all to hell, he thinks, that he’s in an all out bar fight over plants. He takes a few punches and gives several in return before turning on the man that’s bumped into him. Without thinking, he shoves an elbow into the man’s mouth as he turns causing a Spanish curse to fly out around the blood. Eyes going wide, he back peddles an arm’s length away to stare at Vasquez touching a hand to his busted lips. 

The man glares at him and spits out blood from the corner of his mouth, before pulling his gun from his hip and firing. Faraday feels his heart do that weird thing it did when he was kneeled down next the Gatling gun back at Rose Creek and suddenly all of the sound is sucked out of the air by the echo of the gunshot. His vision starts dim at the edges when Vasquez reaches out to him and pulls him forward. “Hijo de puta. No le disparé a ti!”

The older man turns him around just in time to see a man with an ax raised above his head fall to the ground from the impact of a bullet to the chest. When the man’s body hits the ground, Faraday feels all his senses rush back to overwhelming heights and he tries to ride out the adrenaline kick while punching a drunk man in the face. He gets a mug of gut warmer turned on his head in return. 

Eventually, he sees two men who had been sitting together knock glasses over each other’s heads and figures that Billy has already subdued the real men they’re fighting so he rams an elbow into the drunk bastard pulling at his hair, knocking him out cold. 

He turns to the assassin, now shades of black and blue, instead of the usual Asian hue that seems to rile up a white man’s prejudice. He has half a mind left to think that Goodnight will burn this place to the ground finding the man Billy had a disagreement with, or trying to find that damn hairpin. He’s not sure which. 

=============================================================================================

That’s how they got here. 

Six of them sitting around the otherwise vacant saloon, or what’s left of it anyway, with Vasquez’s mouth busted up, Billy the picture of a man being thrown through a window, and Faraday sitting in beer drenched clothes. Once the fight had been broken up by the sheriff bursting through the saloon doors and ordering everybody out except the three of the Seven, they were left standing in the shattered remnants of the the bar like a bunch of school boys lined up for the teacher. 

“We get to pick our own switch, Sheriff?” Faraday asked with a shit-eating grin. The potbellied man’s face turned a shade of red as he turned on them with a fat finger pointing at them. 

“I welcome you like family, we treat you as such, and you tear down my saloon? No, Mr. Faraday, you don’t get to pick a switch, but I’ll let you you pick where you want the bullet to go.”

“Well, I already got enough of those. You don’t think we could work something out? I’ll play you for it,” He counters, already reaching for his cards. Vasquez grabs his wrist before he can pull them out.

“Ignore him, sir. He got tossed around a bit, not so together up here,” he placates, grabbing firmly onto a fistful of the younger man’s hair and giving his head a shake.

Whatever the Sheriff had to say to that was cut off by Sam storming in and somehow convincing the sheriff to let them stay one more night on the condition that they fix up what they could of the saloon. The three of them figured there’d be more hell to pay with Sam than just that, but they were smart enough not to ask about it. 

 

It was when Goodnight came down the stairs and stormed out that Horne gathered them around one of the tables. The sharpshooter had taken one look at Billy and his disheveled appearance, missing hairpin and all, and without saying a word turned tail and ran. Horne started up his ramblings though before anyone could question where Robicheaux was off to, pushing each of them into chairs around one of few remaining tables still standing. 

“We’re going to have a nice family dinner. Yes, that’s right. The Lord meant for families to gather and make peace, and such. That’s what we’re going to do,” he said, slamming empty plates down onto the table. 

“Aw, Hell, Horne, ain’t no reason to go playing house,” Faraday muttered as a plate was put down in front of him. 

“No one’s playin’ house. No one’s playin’ anything. We’re a family. One that likes to fight each other as much as other people, apparently, but a family no less,” Horne replies, taking a seat at the corner. “Now, you all know I had me a family before. A pretty wife and child, God rest their souls. And the way I figure, I ain’t ever gonna have that again. But I’ve…I’ve made my peace with that I guess. But the Lord, He gave me y’all for whatever Hell freezing over reason, and I aim to do His will. Y’all are the family I got and it’s gonna stay that way, no matter how much y’all fight it, so you best just get along. Apologize, or say nothing at all until Goodnight comes back. Then….then we’ll have us a nice supper.”

 

They were quite for a long time until Vasquez couldn’t take the sound of Faraday shuffling his cards anymore. They conjured up another argument, drug Billy into it, and Faraday tried to leave. He was forced to sit back down, and that leaves them right back where they started. 

All six of them sitting around the table in silence waiting for Goodnight to show back up.  
He does eventually, drifts back in as if he just went out for a smoke for a couple of minutes instead of being gone a few hours. He’s slightly disheveled, but no more so than usual and carrying a book in one hand and a small, thin hairpin in the other. 

His takes off his hat without a word, nodding to Sam and Horne at the far end of the table before dropping it onto an upturned chair leg. He places the book in front Faraday, a copy of the children’s book identical to the one that Mary had given him and had been destroyed by the beer poured over him in the fight. He pats him on the shoulder, gently saying, “Whenever you want,” while moving to stand behind Billy. He takes the Asian’s lengthy black hair in his hands and twists it up in exactly the way they’ve always seen it, and pushes the hairpin through the knot. He whispers something in Korean none of them have a chance at understanding and receives a grateful nod from Billy that means more than they may ever know. 

Goodnight grins as he plops down in the chair in between Billy and Faraday and looks at all of them, “So, what are we havin’ for dinner boys?”

And somehow, just like that, the entire day is forgotten. Horne stands up with excitement, while explaining, “If you see the way it’s cooked, you may not mind it so much,” to Red Harvest as he tugs him along to the small kitchen in the back. The rest of them sit in a moment of silence before Faraday leans forward and asks, “So about decoratin’ this place…”

It causes a chorus of laughter, and Goodnight prompts Billy to tell them exactly what happened. Red Harvest and Horne come back with food by the time Faraday is explaining how Vasquez got his busted lip. After they’re done eating, Sam indulges Horne with religious talk, with Red Harvest offering his own thoughts on the matter at one end of the table while Goodnight and Billy talk in hushed spurts of Korean on the other. Vasquez and Faraday sit in front of each other trying to avoid the awkwardness they’re creating in the middle. 

Eventually, Faraday swallows thickly and fingers at the new book Goody had given him, wondering how exactly the man knew. He figures it doesn’t matter so much as how, but as to why and it makes his argument with Vasquez seem much bigger than it was. By the time he finds the courage to look up across the table and make amends, the outlaw is no longer sitting there. 

Instead, he’s dragging a chair up on the other side of Faraday and plucking the book from his hands. “So, I teach myself English so it may not go as quickly as you hope, but we start small, work our way up how ever long it takes, guero. Si?” Nodding along with the apology stuck in his throat, the gambler says, “Si,” in hopes that Vasquez knows what he means. 

He’s having a hard go of it, though Vasquez is showing an unusual amount of patience. It doesn’t seem to frustrate him at all, even when the outlaw has to lean around Faraday to show the book to Goodnight and ask, “What is this word?” Robicheaux smiles gently and tells them both, only for Vasquez to repeat it to Faraday as if he knows he wasn’t listening.

And he wasn’t, not exactly. He was listening to everything. Sam and Horne talking about God, Red Harvest offering his own view of the world’s maker, Billy twisting his mouth around a few Korean words as he gives the herbs to Goodnight, and Vasquez’s accent when he rolls his R’s. 

He takes the book Mary gave him and opens the cover to her handwritten note thankfully untouched by alcohol. He tilts it at Vasquez and asks, “Can you…can you tell me what that says?”

The older man takes it with a bemused expression and squints as he reads, “Momma says only the horses and cowboys know where you are, like they have a secret language. I’m gonna give this book to a cowboy so he can read it to you to tell you that I love you.” Vasquez glances up at him, “Where did you get this from?”

But Faraday knows it doesn’t matter. He’ll never see the girl’s father, but she’s right about one thing, or at least her mother is. Cowboys and horses have a secret language. Some of its spoken in foreign accents. Some of it lays silent in gestures like a new book or an old hairpin. 

The Magnificent Seven have their own secret language and Faraday knows that even though they’re all still learning it, it’s a beautiful language that his family speaks.


End file.
